Awake
by startraveller776
Summary: Loki the Cursed Prince was nothing more than lore—a children's bedtime story. Or so Jane believed until she accidentally rescued him. Now forced to be at his side in order to break the curse, can she learn to love an immortal who has been made bitter by revenge? Can she leave behind everything she's ever known to help save him? (Fractured Fairytale AU) LOKANE


**Disclaimer:** I'm just borrowing. I promise I'll put them back when I'm finished.

**A/N:** This was written in response to **Artemis Day**'s prompt on the Thor Kinkmeme on LiveJournal. (I would be happy to give you the link if you request it, but the prompt is very thorough. Spoilers abound.)

Per the prompt, this is unapologetically AU. However, I endeavor to keep the characters true despite the altered environment.

**Theme song:** _Labyrinth of Dreams_ by Nox Arcana.

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**Prologue**  
_Buried_

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The first pang came in the middle of the banquet. Loki paused while recounting his trip to Muspell and pressed his hand against his chest, brow furrowed. His heart had stuttered—just a little off cadence for a beat or two. A breath passed without incident, then another, and Loki thought he might have imagined the odd sensation.

"Are you well?" Thor asked, concern drawing his mouth into a frown.

Loki smiled at his brother despite his niggling unease. "Of course. Now, where was I?"

Thor studied him for a silent minute as though he might protest, but then the corners of his eyes crinkled. "You made it rain at Brannförsök."

"Ah, yes." Loki nodded. "I tell you this—without their mighty flames, the demons are about as menacing as a newborn foal!" He went on to describe the pandemonium during the Fire Trials as the creatures believed Ragnarök had finally come upon them.

Such _delicious_ mayhem.

Volstagg let out a guttural laugh, spewing bits of food and saliva across the table. Sif doubted the veracity of Loki's tale—a point which rankled him only a little. She never believed him capable of generating these feats of mischief. Perhaps one day he would give her more intimate evidence of his prowess, but for now, let Thor corroborate his story. His brother had been there—as he nearly always was.

Loki settled back in his chair when Thor began to regale the others with some old battle story or another. Unconsciously, he rubbed at his chest. Were the sinews there tighter than they had been before? No. He dismissed the thought.

The second pang came later that evening as he lounged in the library, perusing an ancient tome on Light Elf magic. Again the rhythmic thrumming of his heart fell out of sync, but this time it was no small discomfort. Pain wicked away his breath as if he had been flayed open with a dagger. He stumbled from his cushioned chair, gasping for the air that refused to fill his lungs as he reached for the familiar threads of pulsating magic. There was nothing there—as if the power had never existed at all.

For the first time since childhood, Loki experienced panic.

Books crashed to the floor as he blindly grasped for any kind of solid support. He had to get to the healing rooms. His movements became stiff, fettered by unresponsive joints. Like a calcifying corpse. Each swing of his arms, each bend of his knees crackled with agony and Loki would have cried out if he could have managed a breath to do so.

He was dying and there was nothing to stop it.

Suddenly, he wanted to laugh. So this is how his demise comes? Not in the glory of battle with his brother, but with a cowardly attack. Would Thor avenge his death? Tear down the nine realms of Yggdrasil to find his brother's killer? Would Sif believe Loki to have gotten what he deserved for his years of relatively harmless misdeeds?

Would they mourn? His father? His mother? Would she weep?

Warm tears pooled in his eyes. Tears from the pain spidering through his limbs as he crawled in vain toward the massive doors of the library. Tears of mourning for a stolen future. He grinned bitterly at the latter. Who knew he would be given to such sentiment when he took his last rasping breaths? And here Thor had always accused him of being incapable of sincerity.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

Loki craned his head at the unexpected voice, the movement sending another thrill of agony down his spine. Hope pushed through his dark thoughts like a tender shoot peeking through the loamy soil—only to be crushed when he recognized cold face above him.

"Leilwin." He mouthed the name rather than spoke it.

The Dark Elf witch stared down at him, black and blue eyes set in unblemished white skin. She was as stunning and ethereal as he remembered. And as terrible.

She paced around him, her long skirts whispering on the marble floor. "Did you know," she spoke in a melodic voice, "that I was banished for treason? For conspiring against my brother."

Loki tried futilely for air, but the muscles of his chest had turned into inflexible stone.

Leilwin crouched down and traced the line of his jaw with a slender finger. "Such beauty," she murmured, "masking such cruelty."

He shook his head. The movement was slow, as if his neck no longer had the strength. He hadn't been cruel—not really. Winning her heart had been a new challenge. Just a bit of fun. Taking the kingdom from her mad brother had been her idea. Loki had merely encouraged her delusions of grandeur. A gentle nudge just to see if he could. Nothing more.

"As Malekith spared my life," she said, grasping his chin and jerking his head to face her, "so shall I spare yours. This is the only mercy I will offer you."

For all her talk of not taking his life, he was still suffocating. His arms, his legs no longer obeyed his commands, but lay frozen, unfeeling. If this was not death, then what was it?

"As Malekith exiled me from the home I love," Leilwin continued, her voice rising in an incantation, "so shall I exile you from the gilded halls of Asgard." She leaned forward, pressing cool lips over his. "With this kiss I seal your doom. Only love can save you."

She caressed his cheek with a gentleness belied by the damnation she was meting out. With pity in her eyes, she whispered, "But who could ever love the liar?"

A final tear slid down the side of his face as his vision grew dark. Not a tear of sorrow or fear, but one conceived from anger. Hatred. Vengeance. How dare she punish him for her own foolishness.

He would find a way to break this curse. And he would make Leilwin pay dearly for it.

These were his final thoughts as he slipped into a black and fathomless void.

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**A/N:** This will be a multi-chapter fic. And yes, I know that I can be terribly slow at times with updates. I apologize. But I _do_ finish what I start. No matter how long it takes. (And no, I haven't forgotten about "Three Days!")

Thank you for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Reviews are better than chocolate. It's a scientifically proven fact. Just ask Jane Foster.


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